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Wednesday, February 29, 2012

And You Got to Know When to Fold ‘Em

T calls just moments, from the sound of it, ahead of his nap.

“So you’ll be happy to knoooooooow-aaaaahhhhhh – “ Yawning, he continues to talk, a series of vowels surrounded by articulation-defiant lips. Like many in the restaurant business, T works a second shift. Unable to truly sleep in, our late-morning conversations are liberally sprinkled with yawns, references to siestas, and the sounds of home.

“Me?” I imagine he’s pointing an index finger at himself. “Now why would I do something like that? Do you think I want to be a part of your blog?”

I shake him off. “So what’s this about your socks now?”

He sips at something, 1400 miles of ground between us. “The sock pile,” he muses. “They were holding me back, keeping me from being the man I was meant to be.”

“That and lining your sofa with aluminum foil.”

“Only when I’m not home!”

“I don’t care when you do it,” I say. “It’s weird.”

T mutters into his drink. “They’re leather couches.”

“With aluminum foil on them.”

“The cats hate it against their little feet; and until they can learn to keep their lousy little claws in, I will continue to line the couches with foil. They can lay on the floor.”

“Weirdo.”

“Couch-hater.”

There is silence as we ponder the deficiencies we have discovered in each other.

“Anyway,” he says, “Sock pile.”

“Ah, yes. Carry on.”

There is the sound of a door opening followed by the sound of feet on crushed seashells. A dove coos overhead. He opens his mailbox, a rusty whine of a sound.

“I’ve dumped them. Gotten rid of the pile, Pearl.”

“Are we still talking about socks?”

“Why, have you heard something else about my piles?”

“Shaddap.”

He laughs, shuts the mailbox. “Seriously, though. I will not be a slave to my unruly and unmatched socks.” He opens his backdoor, calls to his cat – “Come here Mao-Mao! Who’s so sexy? Who’s so sexy?” – and steps back into his kitchen. “Will I be fettered by the undisciplined nature of the solitary sock?” In my mind’s eye, he is raising a fistful of bills, newsletters, circulars in the air.

There is a pause. I’ve missed my cue.

“No!” I say. “There will be no more wanton fettering!”

“By Jove, not while I can fold,” he says grimly.

There is a pause.

“So, wait,” I say. “What did you do now?”

He takes a drink. “I threw out my unmatched socks.”

There is silence, followed by the sound of a fan building up speed.

“Yep,” he says, wistfully. “It’s only matched socks from here on out.”

I learned a long time ago to have only one kind and color socks - white. And of all people to learn the life lesson from, I believe it was Jerry Lewis. I basically have only one kind of shirt, from the same store, for everyday use, but at least they are in a rainbow of colors. Leprechaun!!!

I have many an unmatched sock which still enjoys a full and happy existence in my sock draw and, on those dark, cold mornings when I can't find the switch for my bedside lamp, on my feet. I do not fear the threat of mis-matched socks as my darning needle is with me always!

I only have 3 kinds of socks in my drawers(chest of drawers) and they are all white. So anytime you need a matching pair the max number of socks you have to pull are 4. comes in handy when its dark out. Smart HUH?? Stylish? Not so much.

I thought you said something just opposite of my mind just yesterday, yes?

&^)

I am still unda duh weather, but I have to go groc shopping soon. The plumbers are almost done, the carpenter comes a little later to wrap up some things, then flooring people, so I am hoping by Saturday our pedicure people are able to crank it up, eXciting! So that will be our first ped chair, and there is room for two more a little later down the road.

Is this the point to admit that I haven't worn matched socks since the Great Laundry Debate of '73? In which I feature large (figure of speech) as the poor, unappreciated college student, left with one brown and one red sock. Which I donned. To completely unexpected and thunderous applause. The adulation was just too good to ignore. It was then that I saw my path. A decidedly mis-matched one. Thus my battle cry, "Mis-matches for everyone!" It needs work.And you know where the 'other' socks go? To the hozone.

We've never had mismatched socks in our house. For almost 44 years, I've been washing my husband's smelly socks, folding them, and tucking them oh-so-neatly into his dresser drawer. He pulls them out, wears them, and never complains. Um, one thing that helps? (Shhhhh... He's color blind.)

I keep mis-matched socks in a bag in the vain hope I will find a mate one day. Last time I threw out a bag my granddaughter actually cleaned her room and the mates showed up. I'll never throw them out again.

I have a small confession. I have NO unmatched socks. And a further concession: I may wear aluminium foil on my legs to stop a certain cat from using me as a scratching post. If it works on sofas it must work for me.

See, it's a thing I kind of envy about men - they are sock unadventurous. Most of them just buy a big, spanking five pack of black sport socks, generic, boring, functional - so matching rarely matters because they're all the same. And when one gets holey or misshapen or lost, it's no big deal. Me? I have stripy socks. My socks must not be plain. Plain is for idiots and men. I may wear black socks for work but when I'm ME? Stripes all the way. Or those giant thigh high American Apparel socks with the stripes at the top. LOVE THOSE. Although I will branch out sometimes and get fruity with polka dots or daisies or something if I'm feeling odd.

There. Everything you needed to know about my sock habits. YOU ARE WELCOME, PEARL!

I tried this type of operation a few months back in my Tupperware cabinet, and threw out the unlidded receptacles, and the lids without receptacles, and I was happy, with only mates...for a while...

And now...it's started all over again.

So...

I can't figure out if my daughter is throwing away halves of the newly mated pairs, or returning the missing little lost lambs to the fold...

Which would kind of turn it into a Romeo and Juliet kind of situation...where Juliet wakes up from her feigned death, only to discover that Romeo has well and truly offed himself.

Or...like your glove situation: remember that? Who was it? Lefty and Stinky? ~sigh~ I'm not sure I've remembered correctly, the names of your dear gloves. How CAN I be so cold, as to not remember such an epic tale.

And all this says to me that you and T and I have some kind of weird concern going for the unmated items of the world.